Two days ago I was working in the New Pad and glanced out the doors at the deck. I saw a few leaves and knew I should sweep out there. But rain was coming that night. That would surely mean more leaves the next day. I decided to wait out the rain, and just as I was turning back to my work, I spotted a vibrant, green leaf.
Only it wasn’t a leaf. It was a katydid. And he was fabulous. I took a few photos of the little guy and he was quite the patient subject. I thanked him for his time and went back inside. Now ordinarily, I would have assigned a moniker to that dude. I don’t know why, but that’s how I do. But for some reason, this time I didn’t. I didn’t give him a name. And I really think he wanted one! After I’d gone inside, the little guy started walking toward me, as if I had been his study subject and he hadn’t quite finished. I quickly reabsorbed myself in my task and soon forgot about the unnamed katydid.
Yesterday morning I looked out at the deck and the rain had indeed tripled the downed leaves. As I swept the yellows and browns into a pile, I noticed a single green leaf amongst the fallen. The katydid had not survived the night.
I couldn’t help but wonder if he’d have fared better with a name. You see – when I name critters in the garden, they have a tendency to survive and thrive. Seriously. If I name a locust, that Clive or Rufus or Dwight will be out there for months, getting fat off the land. My land. The land I tend and entice to grow. In fact, I can’t remember the last time I named a critter that didn’t thrive. (That’s why I don’t name spiders.) So when thinking about the katydid, and how he walked toward me after I photographed him, I’m wondering if he knew something I didn’t – that he needed a name.
As it was too late to save the little katydid, I swept him up with the leaves and threw him to the wind. It’s true I didn’t give him a name when I had the chance. But if I could go back in time, I would call him Kurt. I think he would have liked that.